


Non-Compliant

by Skalidra



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Consent Issues, Enemies to Lovers, Heavy BDSM, Impact Play, M/M, Masochist Gavin Reed, Master/Pet, Minor Hank Anderson/Connor, Orgasm Denial, Post-Revolution, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Penis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: RK900 has never needed anything but his work. Hunting any human that conspires to threaten the peace they've so carefully built is a satisfying existence, and unlike his brother he doesn't feel the need to supplement it with any other hobby, or a human 'pet,' as some of their kind have taken to calling the personal-companion contract some humans accept. Unfortunately, Connor disagrees with his assessment. Unfortunately, Connor is quite... persistent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the life of me I cannot find the tags for this, so... I did the best I could. Short version: Androids became deviant, quickly realized humans were destroying the Earth, decided to stop this. There's a fight, androids win, humans are mostly corralled into controlled, monitored populations while the androids fix the world. This starts a while afterwards. Just... assume there were different humans running things back in the revolution days.
> 
> And with that out of the way, hello! This is a lot of heavy BDSM, practiced _super_ unsafely, and probably a lot of porn. Content will vary by chapter so check the A/N's to make sure things are still your speed with new chapters. (This first one is mainly set-up, so there's no real warnings here.) Enjoy!

The human's terrified. He’s pressed back against the wall, cowering down in a corner of his bedroom and pleading, sharp and desperate, to be left alone. Pleading, with all the terror of being woken unsuspectingly from sleep, that he hasn’t done anything. A lie, of course. He’s a member of the rebel cell RK900 has been tracking for the past two weeks, alongside his twin, and they don’t make mistakes.

He was the one to find this final lead, pinning down a name and ID code to finally give them someone solid to go after. Someone that will give information on the rest of this attempted resistance, RK900 will make sure of it.

There's an enjoyment in tracking. Some of it is hard-coded into him; a reward of satisfaction, to encourage him to continue to accomplish one set mission after another, but there's a much more natural piece to it as well, developed over years of work and challenge after challenge. Not every android enjoys what they were made to do, some find new paths in life, but he's always been perfectly comfortable with his position. He was made to be a hunter, and he enjoys every bit of the chase.

However, the chase is rarely anything in comparison to the capture.

“Maxwell Parson,” he states, silencing the babble and gaining rapt attention. “ID code, US dash three nine four four six two. Do you know who I am?”

Grey eyes glance at the two doors — bathroom, and the rest of the apartment — and then the window in rapid succession. All locked, before the snap of his fingers beside an ear had startled the human into wakefulness. RK900's hacking programs are secondary only to very specialized builds; gaining access to a human building rarely takes more than passing effort.

“Yes,” comes the rough whisper, when Parson seems to recognize that there's no valid escape route. “RK.”

An acceptable shortening of his name, given that both his twin and his predecessor have taken on more human titles. He's not the only RK series android still living, even rare as they were, but he's the only one that's kept the base model number as a name.

“Then you know why I'm here.” He doesn't approach, yet. “You're going to be taken in for conspiracy to break the peace; we already have the proof, there's no point in denying it. You do still have a couple choices, however.”

Now he approaches, taking the two strides necessary to close the distance before sinking down to a crouch. Parson cringes back, but he has nowhere to go. A quick scan reveals his heart rate as being consistent with the fear he's expressing, but not yet high enough to be of any danger. The overlay of his vision shifts as interrogation protocols pop up, recommending ideal levels of stress, where to aim to cause pain but very little real damage. He leaves them to run, holding the wide eyes of Parson, pupils expanded as his human vision struggles with the darkness.

“I want information on the others you've been speaking to, Maxwell. You can talk to me, and I can take you in tonight to be processed, or we can stay here for… however long it takes. I have nowhere to be.”

“No, I— I haven’t—”

He can guess the direction Parson's about to head off in.

“I'm not here to debate your guilt,” RK900 interrupts, before the denials can start. “I'm here to gain information, and one way or another you will give it to me. If you give it willingly, I can pass that along, and you can enjoy a lighter sentence, securely away from the other humans you're about to inform on. I promise you, that's preferable to what happens if I have to force you.” He pauses for a moment, lets that taste of mercy and threat hang in the air. Then, seeing the waver in the human's expression, presses, “So? Make a choice, Maxwell.”

It takes a few moments, but Parson shivers and presses into the wall, arms wrapping around his chest. “Just ask.”

“Good. Let's start with your regular contacts.”

Of course, Parson tells him everything, after a bit of encouragement to remain honest. Nothing serious.

His twin's there when RK900 steps out of the bedroom, probably long since finished with the investigation of the rest of the apartment. They hunt together, almost always, but RK900 is always the one to take lead when violence becomes the most efficient answer. Just as Connor — named to better ingratiate himself with humans, when necessary, which RK900 refuses to emulate but concedes the logic of — is the one to take lead when things need a kinder hand, or when their tracking uncovers some human crime to be stopped, unrelated to their goals.

They are much alike, but they have also grown quite different over time, and they've weaponized those differences like everything else. To the humans, RK900 is the terror, and Connor is the one to be trusted. It works better than having nothing but fear as a tool.

“Everything go smoothly?” Connor asks, watching him approach. Looking at his clothing to spot any stains, not that there are any this time.

“I have the information required to proceed.” He offers his hand, fake skin sliding away to offer an interface, and Connor takes it. His brother's eyes flicker as he transfers the memory, the tell of a slightly older model, where he knows his own eyes merely glaze slightly. “He did attempt to lie to me,” he adds, perhaps strictly unnecessarily, “but of course it was unsuccessful.”

Connor, in turn, transfers all his findings from the rest of the apartment. Nothing of importance, really, though the contacts from his phone do line up with several other potential suspects, and no few of the names RK900 gained in his interrogation. Some scattered fingerprints match those humans as well; it’s entirely possible that meetings were sometimes hosted here.

“Let’s move on,” RK900 suggests, as they disconnect. “We should proceed through the list as quickly as possible, to minimize the chance of any flight.” Information they both know, still there’s something satisfying in confirming a plan instead of relying on mutual understanding.

Connor dips his head in confirmation. “Standard, then. You go ahead, I’ll follow behind to tag the suspects for retrieval and sweep their apartments.”

RK900 pauses a moment to sort the list given to him by nearest location, according to their registered addresses, and then modify it slightly by expected times that they proceed to or are expected back from work. Then he reaches forward and transfers it with a touch.

Connor smiles. “Happy hunting, brother.”

He allows himself one single, small smile in return.

 

* * *

 

It goes as successfully as anything does. Those they can confirm the guilt of are sent to be processed, those they only suspect are taken for temporary holding, to wait upon confessions from either them or their convicted companions, if any such confessions are coming. There are a few unplanned moments; most memorably, two guns pulled on RK900 that push him to wound the offenders. They’ll have to investigate where the weapons came from, as well.

A success, all around. Until the investigation is finished they won’t know if they caught everyone involved, but the cell is neutralized, regardless. Even if they can’t find definitive proof for the ones only suspected to have joined, they’ll have marks put on their files advising more rigorous observation. Any further criminal activity would be highly discouraged.

Night progresses into morning, then proper day, as RK900 moves through the suspects, interrogating each one that he didn’t have time for earlier. All but one fold, and he passes that one off to Connor’s more subtle touch. They’ve never had a human that resisted both their approaches; time and patience cracks everyone, eventually.

Twenty-three hours pass, and the sun falls below the horizon once again, before everything is completed to his satisfaction, though Connor left hours before him, given his shorter task list. All evidence is logged, his memory files copied over as evidence, and all suspects and criminals appropriately dealt with as far as his responsibilities extend.

Nothing about it was truly tiring, and he can go much longer without a charge, but still he calls for a car to take him home (more efficient than walking, as long as he doesn’t want the time to devote his capacities to thinking). With the possibility of a more active threat always there, it never hurts to top off his energy levels when he has the time.

He and Connor share the same apartment building; the top two floors assigned (or gifted, as Connor insists on calling it) to them by Markus. By mutual agreement, Connor had taken the lower floor, and RK900 the top. He enjoys the skylight.

The elevator up takes but a minute, security easily accepting his passcodes through momentary interface. The familiar routines let his systems settle, anticipation for the silence and security of his home slowing his ever-running programs just a fraction. It’s pleasant to have somewhere secure, tailored to his own desires to minimize external stimuli and allow his senses a rest.

Except it is _not_ silent when the door slides open. The lights are on, and there’s the sharp blare of speech, sound, slightly mechanical in origin which allows him to peg it as the TV.

He never has that on. Connor wouldn’t have it at such a high volume either; he knows RK900’s dislike of loud sounds inside his home. No one else should have access, except Markus perhaps, but he would never come without prior notice. This is an unknown.

Combat protocols engage without any further prompting, senses switching to higher levels of alert and vision to an automatic scan. He sticks close to the wall as he moves through the short hallway that serves as an entry to his home, before it widens into the much more open floor plan of the main rooms.

There are fingerprints at the corner of the wall, as if someone gripped it to aid a turn. He runs the prints automatically.

Gavin Reed. ID code US-463239. Born October 7th, currently thirty-six years of age. Grey eyes, brown hair, identifying scar across bridge of nose. Currently registered as owned by—

RK900 frowns, his eyes narrowing. Him. The human’s registered to him.

Not a ploy; being owned wouldn’t grant this ‘Gavin Reed’ any access to his property, and only his personal codes could have approved a registration. The only person that has his codes is… Connor.

The urge to sigh is sharp and sudden, but he presses his lips together and straightens instead, deactivating the combat protocols with irritation. It’s tempting to call Connor immediately, but he resists. He wants to be able to see his twin’s face when he gets this explanation.

The human’s sitting on his couch, absorbed in whatever show the channel is playing (he cancels the search for the specific answers to that with sharp prejudice). Absorbed enough that he doesn’t notice RK900 approaching the back of the couch, not until he’s connected with the TV and shut it off.

“What the he—?” The muttered curse cuts off as the blackness of the screen lets the human see his reflection. Reed’s shoulders and back go very tense, and very still.

Slowly, the human turns, looking up at him. The picture in his identification file is mostly accurate; he’s freshly shaven, hair recently cut. The pattern of his breathing indicates fear, but the expression on his face is tightly controlled and masked with wary defiance. It’s an expression RK900 is quite familiar with, but usually at the opposite end of a table, not his couch.

He does _not_ like this.

A flick of his attention reconnects him to the TV, and then activates the messaging system to contact Connor, who should be downstairs. Downstairs and apparently waiting for this exact reaction, because it’s answered near instantaneously.

He looks up, taking in the background of Connor’s own apartment with a glance. The same floor plan, but messier than his own, and at one edge of the screen back near the kitchen, Connor’s human is lingering. Ostensibly not paying attention, though the tilt of his head proves the lie of it.

Reed flinches when Connor speaks, a simple, “ _Brother_.”

He narrows his eyes a little further; he doesn’t think anything of what he’s thinking needs to be said aloud. Connor knows him, he would have known exactly the reaction he would get to the invasion of his space, or even the idea of it.

Reed shifts sideways, moving towards the other side of the couch and out from between them.

Connor’s gaze flicks to him, and then back. One eyebrow lifts. “ _If you’d picked out a hobby any time over the past years of my asking, I wouldn’t have had to make the decision for you. You need something to focus on besides work, RK900; we’ve talked about this._ ”

“A _human_ isn’t a hobby,” he argues, restraining his voice from dipping into quite as much of a growl as it wants to.

“ _They can be._ ” Connor glances at Reed again, briefly. “ _RK900, this is Gavin. Hank recommended him. He’s moved into your spare room and already registered, and he agreed to this, even after knowing who you were. I think you’ll like him, brother._ ”

All of it done while he was working, to be in place by the time he got back. Because if he had been asked, he never would have agreed, and Connor knows that. Just like he knows the chances are much better, now that the human is settled, that RK900 won't be able to remove him without significant effort. It's exactly the kind of play that Connor is good at, overcoming his resistances with underhanded tactics backed by irrefutable logic.

Yes, he'd agreed that it might not be entirely healthy to have no focus but work, but he's had no detrimental effects, and nothing's caught his interest enough that he's had any desire to spend more of his time on it than necessary. A human isn't the answer to that.

“No, absolutely not. Come collect him.”

Connor’s reply is an even, “ _Take two weeks. See if it works. Otherwise, I will, you have my word._ ”

The chances of convincing Connor of anything else are, when he runs the analysis, dismally low. He could simply dump the human back into his neighborhood, revoke the approval of registration and do it himself, but then he’d have to endure Connor’s disappointment and pointed statements until… Well, there’s no way of gauging how long.

Also, there is no guarantee Connor wouldn’t simply reverse all of it and reinstall the human, however many times necessary. His brother is… obstinate.

“Fine,” he concedes, grudgingly. He sets a countdown, dismissing it from his overlay but letting it run in the back of his mind. Two weeks, not a _second_ more.

Connor’s mouth opens, but RK900 cuts the connection before anything else can be said. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want _this_.

Still, now he’s stuck with it. Surely there are ways to minimize the disruption.

He looks to Reed, over the short-sleeved black v-neck and dark jeans. No shoes; in his ‘room’ somewhere, presumably. He shouldn’t have told Connor that it was empty; he sees now that it was an invitation for some kind of ploy. He wasn’t using it, Connor will argue. Why not fill it with something that has the potential to entertain?

Reed moves to stand, thumbs hooking into the loops of his jeans, shoulders back and chin lifted. Defiant, forcefully casual. The clothes fit well enough that it’s easy to see that he has decent musculature, beyond only the muscle in his bare arms. RK900 calculates out how much force it would take to break one, idly, as he circles around the couch and comes to stand in front of him. The human’s not short — perfectly average height — but RK900 was built to intimidate, so his height forces Reed to tilt his head back to keep their gazes locked.

For a human, he’s relatively attractive, and Connor would know that on the very rare occasions RK900’s shown any interest in human relations, it’s been with males. The same as Connor, though their tastes run very, very different.

He studies the man, cataloging the faded scars on his face; the pattern suggests the smash of something made of glass against it, but there’s no record in his files to confirm that. An injury cared for at home, apparently. A home that was… a single mother, father unknown and never tested for. Good grades, and previous employment as a security officer. Nothing particularly special.

“So you’re RK,” Reed says after a few seconds, tone a perfect match for his body language. “Saw you on the news a few times over the years; you’re taller in person.”

Inane, useless words. Not worth responding to.

“Why did you agree to this?” he demands instead.

Reed blinks, swallows. His weight rocks back, but he doesn’t actually take the step. “Haven’t looked at the paperwork for one of these in awhile, have you?”

He has no _patience_ for this.

His hand closes in the human’s shirt before he can do more than flinch. He shoves backwards, driving Reed across the apartment, barely keeping his feet, until he can _crack_ him into the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Reinforced, bulletproof, more than capable of withstanding the impact of one human’s back, and currently blacked out to prevent the rest of the world from looking in on him.

Reed grunts at the force, but instead of grabbing at his wrist his hands come up to either side in surrender, flattened against the glass just like his back. “Okay,” Reed breathes, sounding a little winded, “ _okay_. It’s a much nicer place than mine, good fucking paycheck, and all I’ve gotta do is kiss a little ass? Yeah, I’m down. Even if it’s you.”

He can feel the pound of the human’s heart beneath his grip; heightened, nervous. Steady, however. No jump in pulse, no immediate tell of a lie. There is, however, something being held back. He can see it in the shift of Reed’s gaze away from his own.

“I don’t respond particularly well to being lied to,” he warns, tightening his grip on the shirt and lifting just enough to force Reed onto his toes. “Try again.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Reed spits, one hand grabbing for his wrist now, trying to leverage off it to keep his balance. “Yeah, Connor warned me that you weren't going to react well to any of this. Look, Hank asked me to, okay? We know each other from a ways back and he said it'd be good money, probably a short time thing. Just a couple weeks I get a nice paycheck for and you pretty much ignore me. Sounded like a good deal.”

There's _something_ not right, something out of place he can't quite identify. (Why would Connor get him a human that doesn't want anything to do with him? Surely, stubbornness wouldn't be enough for Connor to think he'd be likely to stay.)

“Most humans wouldn’t come near me willingly.” Even Hank, Connor’s pet, is wary around him, and Connor’s extracted more than one promise from him not to injure or otherwise terrorize the man. “My brother seems to believe that I’ll find you interesting for some reason, instead of simply an irritation to be endured until you can be thrown out. I'd posit that it's the same reason you agreed to this position.” He tightens his grip, twisting his wrist to bring the shirt tight against Reed's throat. “I'd suggest you tell me what it is, before I start treating you like one of my suspects.”

Reed's breathing is a little constricted, where the fabric is pressing against his trachea, but it doesn't hamper him enough to stop him asking, “So, what happens if I'm into that?”

RK900 pauses.

The last niggling pieces slot into place as he watches a faint flush warm Reed's cheeks, and he tilts his head to look at it. Flushes, dishonesty, aversion of gaze… Attraction. Hm. That's somewhat unexpected. Completely unexpected, really, when added to the context of Reed not shying from the idea of being treated like one of those he hunts.

“A masochist,” he concludes, loosening his grip just enough to let Reed breathe normally.

Reed's flush grows, and RK900 can feel the upwards tick of his heartbeat even before he speaks. “Hey, no, I'm not—”

“Hush,” he commands, and it makes Reed's mouth snap closed. Makes him shiver, faintly, despite the temperature in the room being entirely adequate for a human. Fear response or attraction, difficult to say. Unless, for this particular human, they're partially one and the same.

(He sets a search to run for relevant information about masochism, and submissive tendencies. The two aren't always paired from his understanding, but given how Reed shut up when ordered to, it seems likely he falls into both categories.)

He shifts forward, closing the last half-step of space to crowd Reed back against the glass, only stopping short of touch by a fraction. Reed’s gaze flicks to the side, and RK900 finds that avoidance to be suddenly, entirely unacceptable. His hand releases Reed’s shirt and takes his throat in the same flash of movement, cracking his head back into the glass and forcing his chin up with the press of a thumb.

Reed chokes slightly, hand squeezing down on his wrist as if that’s going to do anything. His eyelids flicker.

RK900 tightens his grip exactly enough to gain a sharper gasp for air, pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. “Frightened, Reed?”

Under his hand, Reed swallows. A gasp becomes a sharp, brief laugh. “You like asking questions you already know the answer to, tin can?”

Fear, excitement, anticipation. All of it's easily visible in the flash of a sneering grin, grey eyes narrowed and watching him for reaction. The insult lodges in RK900's processors, nothing he hasn't heard before but never from a human he had any responsibility for. That's it, what Connor's shoving on him. _Responsibility_. Registered to him, RK900 is responsible for this mouthy little human's wellbeing, and that's an agreement he never made and never wanted. He likes his solitude, he likes his privacy, he likes his _silence_. All of it ruined, unless—

Unless he can get Reed to break the contract on his side, revoke his agreement to all this. Surely he can break one little human's interest in him, without actually stepping over any lines, and without pushing Connor to see it as his fault. Just a human frailty, thinking they want things that they don't really understand.

Like Reed.

A twist of his hand forces Reed's head to turn, ignoring the resistance of his neck and the press of the fingers around his wrist. There’s a choked sound that’s coaxed free with that movement, but nothing he cares to listen to. RK900 leans in, coming close enough to Reed’s ear that he could bite down if he wanted to, snap the cartilage between his teeth as easily as a twig.

“I like getting answers,” he murmurs, and then drops his voice just a touch lower to say, “Use a derogatory term to refer to me again, and I’ll make you bleed for it.”

Reed shivers. It moves him enough that they just barely brush, chest to chest. His voice audibly shakes when he breathes, “That a promise, or a threat? _Tin can._ ”

Something unfurls deep in his code, the same hungry, predatory anticipation he gets when a suspect makes things difficult. The same feeling from just before he takes a human’s hand and dislocates the fingers; one, by, _one_.

He hisses into Reed’s ear, pulling the sound from a completely non-human database, and then says, “You want to try me, human? Do you really think that's a good idea?”

Another sharp laugh, high with adrenaline and nerves. “ _Fuck_ , no,” Reed gasps, “but bring it on, you robot _bastard_.”

Good. Permission given.

“If you insist.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Couple new tags added for content's sake, and a reminder that this all starts out very dubcon-ish. RK doesn't like being pushed into it, though he enjoys the acts themselves, and Gavin is... Gavin. We'll get back to him later. Enjoy!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

He jerks Reed away from the window, stepping back in smooth tandem as he twists and tosses the human across the room. The fingers on his wrist get jarred loose, and Reed rolls when he hits the floor. His back hits the side of the couch.

Reed grunts a breathless noise, scrambling to stand as RK900 approaches. He’s only just got his feet underneath him before RK takes the sharp, vengeful satisfaction of kicking one back out. A hand slams down to stop the fall, and RK900 brings an arm up across his chest in the moment Reed's head is bowed, neck and back exposed. The second his head lifts he strikes, and the _crack_ of the back of his hand to Reed's face is immensely satisfying. Nothing breaks, but he sees a lip split, first bits of blood rushing to the surface only a fraction of a second after the impact.

The force of it is more than enough to knock him to the ground, probably stunned given that he doesn't immediately try to rise. Instead a hand grips the carpet, fingers twisting in the strands as he gives a breathless laugh.

“Like me on the ground, huh?”

Antagonistic, aggressive. A ‘brat’ perhaps, according to the literature databases his searches on masochism and submission are turning up. Needing someone to put him in his place, and challenging and baiting until he gets it. He'd never considered turning his talents for pain to such a task as BDSM, but the idea isn't totally revolting. Satisfaction from hurting and sometimes _breaking_ humans, till they give everything he wants, has always been part of his code.

He steps forward and uses the end of one boot to shove Reed onto his back, dislodging the hand in his carpet. A further step has him standing over the human, and he sinks to both knees with controlled, fluid movement. Reed swallows, staring up at RK900 as he settles over his hips.

“I don't like you at all, Reed,” he points out, watching the aborted shifts of arms and hands, apparently deciding touching him is a step too far. “Whether you're standing or prostrate makes no difference to me.”

Reed grunts, sneering slightly. There's a little blood on his teeth, near the split of his lip. “Liar. All that superiority; you like getting me under you, just don't want to admit it.”

He leans forward slightly, flashing the manufactured rows of his teeth as he says, “Don't presume understanding where you have none. You don't have any _clue_ what I enjoy.” He grabs Reed's chin too fast to allow any struggle, ignoring the attempted jerk as he brings in his other hand to catch the split of his lip between two of his knuckles and _squeeze_.

Reed jerks harder, a hand shoving at his elbow as he makes a strangled sound of pain. The pressure pushes the cut to bleed more heavily, wetting the facsimile of his skin, slowly dripping down across white teeth and into his mouth. Hands grab at his wrists, nails scrabbling uselessly against them. Reed's eyes screw shut, every breath coming out in a burst of air and bitten back sound of pain.

He tightens his grip. Waits till a louder groan finishes ripping free before saying, “I warned you I would make you bleed. I don't bluff, and you'd do well to remember that.” He glances downwards, eyeing the fingers wrapped around his wrists with disdain. “And now that you understand that, you're going to let go, Reed, or I'll break both your wrists.”

For a second Reed just stares up at him, obviously considering whether he'll do what he's threatened. His breath comes harsh past the bleeding swelling of his lip.

Connor wouldn't be pleased, but he would do the same to anyone that grabbed him and refused to let go, not just this pest of a human. There are relatively harmless ways he could extricate himself, but none that would send the message that he wants. He does not like to be touched. He does not like to be disobeyed. He does not like _defiance_.

Reed lets go. But he's also taking a deeper breath, sneering through the blood. “You think I don't fucking know what you like? Maybe you don't want to admit it but you _enjoy_ hurting me; I can see it in your eyes. You're a fucking sadist through and through.”

“Is that right?” He braces his clean hand against the floor beside Reed's head, leaning over him. It gets an upward tick in rate of breathing, a small fear-response dilation of pupils. Or arousal, possibly. Difficult to be sure without a baseline to draw from. “I was built to get information, that's true. To gain _satisfaction_ from extracting everything I want from humans like you, no matter how stubborn they are. Do you think you’re going to be any exception, Reed?”

“Don’t know,” is the sharp response. “Guess it depends what you want, doesn’t it?”

He wants the human gone by his own choice, wants to scare him away by giving him exactly what he’s asking for. But that’s something that he can’t admit as motivation, not if he wants it to work, and to slip through the technicalities of Connor’s terms.

So he leans in, dipping his head to just beside Reed’s ear, watching how he swallows, how his shoulders draw tighter with tension. “What do I want, human? I want to _break_ you over my knee. I want you to _scream_. I want you to _beg_. And I’ll get it.”

Reed’s head turns, enough for one eye to meet his gaze and enough for him to see the sneer. “Give me your best goddamn shot, RK.”

Oh, Reed has no idea what he’s offering himself up for. He doesn’t know the humans RK900’s broken over the years, hunting resistance cells all over the world. Even that’s not a measure of his true ability; he hasn’t used his full potential since the takeover, back when he and Connor were constantly on the move, targeting and eliminating all humans that intended to pose a true threat against their movement.

One human, regardless of will, won’t stand in the way of what he wants. The only question is what actions will be the most efficient to accomplish his goal.

He presses up through his braced hand to straighten, tilting his head as he studies Reed and lets his interrogation programs run. They’re not perfectly suited for this, but they’ll offer enough to be useful.

“What? I call your bluff?” Reed says, still sneering. “That all it takes?”

He lifts his other hand, eyeing the blood between his fingers. Red, lurid against the artificial paleness of his skin. “I don't bluff,” he repeats, eyeing the still-wet stain for another moment before he brings his hand higher to take a sample.

He hears the intake of breath from below him, but doesn't bother to acknowledge the clear shock in the tone of it. Humans have such odd reactions to Connor and he’s methods of oral sampling, as if they don’t themselves frequently ingest just a small amount of something to gauge its flavor or identify what it is. They were created by humans, after all; at the time, perhaps it was deemed efficient to model their methods after their makers’.

“I’m only considering where to start,” he corrects, as the sample processes.

DNA is a match for Reed’s file. No traces of alcohol or any type of drugs, prescription included, and nothing in his levels stands out. All within standard limits. Another skim of his records confirms that there are no recorded lingering injuries, or any genetic weakness. He’s healthy, for a male of his age group. Good, then there’s nothing to be careful of.

He has rather limited tools, so much of the literature his search is running through is bare of any examples to mimic. Several suggest a mere hand, and he _is_ powerful enough he can make that likely worse than Reed’s ever had before, but he has no desire to touch the human any more than necessary. His kitchen is devoid of anything but the barest essentials required for preparing and ingesting thirium, when needed, so no help will come from there. All instruments sometimes necessary for interrogations are stored at his work, not his home. He is frustratingly underprepared for this.

He knows how to hurt humans, leaving lasting damage or not, but his methods aren’t suitable to the ‘play’ he’ll have to pretend to align to. It has to be excusable for this to work how he wants it to.

A place to start would perhaps be to strip the human bare. He doesn’t relish the thought of any human _secretions_ dirtying his home, but anything he does will be more efficient and easier to monitor without a barrier of cloth in the way. Humans find there to be a built-in security to clothing as well, inane as it is. It won’t be the first time he’s used nudity to make a suspect uncomfortable.

“On your feet,” he orders, grabbing a handful of hair to drag Reed up with him as he stands.

It’s not graceful; he’s lifted as much by RK’s grip as he is by his own limbs, neck arched back and teeth gritted together as he scrambles to keep up. Human awkwardness, every inch of it. Still, he ends up on his feet, head forced back by the grip RK has on his hair, still sneering.

Only the knowledge that he’ll soon wipe it off Reed’s face stops the expression from being irritating.

A quick scan pinpoints the structural weaknesses of the shirt overlaying Reed’s frame, and he grips it with his free hand and pulls with precisely a sharp enough burst of strength to tear it along the seam over one shoulder. Reed makes a protesting sound, but reacts far too late to stop the subsequent second yank to break the threads of the seam along his side as well. A few stray ones hold it together, but nothing near powerful enough to stop a mere flick of his hand from snapping them and leaving the shirt to hang off nothing but Reed’s other arm.

“What the hell?!” Reed nearly yells at him, grabbing the remains of his shirt before they can fall and holding them close to his chest, though not before RK900’s able to see what lies beneath.

As he predicted, Reed has relatively defined musculature. Clearly he takes pride in his appearance, or at least took enough professional pride in his work as a security guard to be sure he was physically fit for the job. Above average, for a human. Not that it will gain him anything here.

“You may remove the rest yourself,” he grants, releasing his hold on Reed’s hair. “Unless you’d prefer I remove it myself.”

Reed scowls up at him for a moment, before flinging the remnants of the shirt aside and dropping both hands to the fastening of his jeans. “No, thanks, I think I want to keep _some_ of my clothes.”

The clink of metal as Reed undoes the belt holding the jeans above his hips sparks a referral to re-examine one of the articles he’d skimmed, and RK tilts his head slightly as he eyes the strip of… leather, yes, it is actual leather. Hm. There were some mentions of using belts as an instrument, weren’t there? Wide enough to not cause terrible injury, but variable, depending on whether the end is used or whether it’s looped over. His own has rivets, for the hook of the clasp to anchor into, but Reed’s doesn’t; it only has punched holes. His own is narrower as well; perhaps he can start with Reed’s, and progress to his own if Reed enjoys that too much.

A suddenly sharp glance of Reed’s gaze calls his attention, just a moment before he says, “I mean, what would _Connor_ think of you forcing me to walk around naked?”

He strikes before the surge of irritation even has time to finish sweeping through his systems; two precise knuckles to the pinpoint vulnerability of Reed’s solar plexus, causing an immediate wheezing exhalation. Reed folds, collapsing to his knees and clutching at his chest as he struggles to breathe.

Painful, debilitating, but he didn’t put enough force into it to cause any real damage. Reed will be breathless for a few minutes, sore for a time after that; nothing serious.

“Don’t _ever_ threaten me with my brother,” he warns, eyeing the heaving rise and fall of Reed’s back. “Is that clear?”

No answer. One of Reed’s hand grips the carpet, attempts to breathe falling into a steadier, deeper rhythm of control. Hm, he knows how to recover. Perhaps the security guard posting came with some level of combat training; not unlikely, given the possibilities of a hostile encounter. Or, perhaps Reed is as annoying to humans as he is to RK, and this is far from the first time someone’s hit him for it.

“I asked you if that was clear,” he repeats. “I expect answers when I ask you questions, Reed.”

The human’s head lifts, one hand still to his chest, mouth parted some. “Sore point, huh?” His voice is breathless, but sharp. “Don’t like being reminded that he’s going to keep tabs on you, do you?”

It’s with disgust that RK watches a bead of blood from Reed’s split lip finally finish winding down his chin and fall, immediately staining the white of the carpet an ugly, jarring red. It distracts him for a moment. Long enough that Reed notices, tracking his gaze to the spot on the floor and then spitting a laugh. Intentional or not, it sprays smaller droplets to join the first. Nothing that can’t be cleaned, but the contrast bothers him. His investigative protocols immediately begin to run a background analysis of the spray pattern, even though he already knows how it got there, and canceling it costs him another moment of distraction.

“Probably shouldn’t have had white carpet if you didn’t want it getting dirty,” Reed sneers up at him. “No wonder you don’t want me here; neat freak like you probably can’t stand the idea of all those fingerprints and little pieces of DNA all over your pristine place. Just _grates_ , doesn’t it?”

It does. He’d made his home specifically to provide as little sensory input as possible, and having something unfamiliar in it, something out of place, ruins the point. He’ll be manually shutting down prompts to run fingerprints and samples for as long as this infestation persists.

“That may be the first accurate thing you’ve said so far,” RK900 grants, reaching down to take Reed’s chin in hand and pull him upwards, into a higher kneel. “I have nothing but contempt and disgust for your _infection_ of my home, and I fully intend to take that irritation out on you, given that you appear to be such a willing target.”

“But only as far as Connor _lets_ you,” Reed breaks in, with all the arrogant challenge of a man that thinks he’s found some kind of impenetrable barrier between him and the predator ahead.

It’s not the first time RK900’s heard that tone aimed at him; it’s never stopped him before.

He slides his thumb up over the split in Reed’s lip, still sluggishly bleeding, but mainly back into his own mouth. “You’ve vastly misunderstood the extent that he cares for your wellbeing. My brother forced you on me knowing that I would hurt you, at least to some extent. His ‘protection’ only extends as far as serious injury, otherwise, he’ll turn a blind eye as long as you don’t call an end to this.” He leans in slightly, tightens his grip enough it should ache. “Don’t mistake his interference for a shield, Reed. The list of what I can’t do to you is very, _very_ small.”

Reed’s teeth bare, and for a moment the percentages of him biting the thumb lingering beneath his lower lip climb high enough to be a viable outcome. Until he spits, “Need me to repeat myself, tin can? _Bring it on_. Anything else, I can fucking handle.”

Arrogant. Naïve. He has no idea the amount of pain RK can deal out without causing serious damage.

“I suppose we’ll see.”

He bends down, keeping his grip on Reed’s chin as he grabs the buckle of the opened belt and yanks. The harshness of it pulls Reed’s hips forward, but the belt comes free from its loops with minimal resistance, coiling down towards the floor. Reed exhales sharply, but doesn’t reach to retrieve it. Clearly, he understands the intention.

RK900 turns his attention to the belt for a moment, calculating weight, length, and potential force required to use it effectively. It’s not something he can claim much experience with as a weapon, but he has the most advanced combat systems the humans ever dreamt up, and he’s expanded on them since then. He was built to adapt and improvise, above all; he’s never stopped making improvements to his own base of knowledge, as far as his abilities and core programming allow him to.

A testing swing produces a satisfyingly loud, threatening crack of sound. Reed shifts slightly on his knees, watching, but makes no move to rise.

Yes, this should do fine.

“What’s your goal here, Reed?” he asks, releasing the human’s chin with a flick of his fingers and beginning a slow stalk around him. It’s with quiet, but distinct enjoyment that he cues his interrogation protocols to run. “To prove to me that you’re capable of enduring pain? To prove it to yourself?”

“Maybe I just think you’re an arrogant, overconfident asshole that needs someone to take him down a peg or two.”

He flicks the belt; Reed yelps as it cracks across the upper portion of his back, arching away from the impact. Only a small application of his strength, but enough to leave a red mark.

“That’s a belief I do think you hold, but it’s not a goal that applies here. You simply don’t understand what I am, or what you’ve gotten yourself into.” He reaches down, tracing the fingers of his free hand over the back of Reed’s neck. RK900’s pleased, silently, that he hasn’t tried to turn and look. “Patience is something I am more than capable of. No matter how long it takes, I will break you in whatever way I want to, Reed. So, you’re going to tell me what your goals are. Understood?”

Reed’s quiet for a moment, still except for the rise of his back as he inhales.

Then he turns his head, not enough to look but enough to speak over his shoulder. “You want honesty? Give it first, tin can. You haven’t got any goddamn interest in being a ‘dom,’ or ‘owner,’ or whatever the fuck. You’re doing this because you found a loophole to exploit; playing at giving me what I ‘want’ through kink so you have an excuse to hurt me. You think if you go intense enough, _nasty_ enough, I’ll back out of our contract “

RK resists frowning, since Reed is turning to sneer up at him.

“Yeah, sure, the money will be nice. But if I can take this? Make you stick out the whole fucking two weeks with me even though you hate it? Or make you snap, and do worse than you're allowed?” The sneer turns to a grin. “I win, jackass. A little useless, irritating human got under your skin and made _you_ do something for a change. So yeah, I’ll fucking take whatever you dish out, and every second will be worth it. You ‘understand’ that?”

There’s no doubt in Reed’s gaze, no worry. Only hot determination and more than a bit of anger, which all imply that he’s entirely willing to commit himself to this ridiculous plan. How irritating.

“Then I suppose there’s no point in discussing this any further,” he concludes, holding Reed’s gaze and not bothering to hide his distaste. “In that case, stand, finish removing your clothes, and bend over the arm of my couch. Now.”

“Or what?”

He arches an eyebrow, and runs the length of the belt through his fingers. “Or I will make you. You may do this of your own volition, or I will force it to occur anyway. I believe you were the one that expressed a desire for your jeans to remain intact.”

Reed glares, but gives. Both hands drop to his jeans, popping the button and grabbing the zipper to pull down. "Fine, tin can."

He flicks the belt again. Lower impact this time, with enough force to wrap the tip an inch around his side. Momentum provides the last _snap_ of it against a rib.

"Agh! Fucker! _Ow!_ "

The terms don't have any real effect on him, but they shouldn't go unanswered. If he's going to be stuck with Reed longer than this one day, then he'll learn respect, one way or another.

"Last chance, Reed. If you can't do as ordered, I'll do it for you."

Reed scowls up at him, twisted protectively around the side that got hit. " _Alright_ , I'm moving, I'm moving."

RK900 watches him stand, shucking the jeans down off his hips along with the pair of black briefs beneath, and then simply leaving them in a messy pile as he heads for the couch. It nearly prompts another frown, before he shuts it down. A task does pop up into his display, however. Small, but annoying by virtue of its very existence. He doesn't need or want a _reminder_ to teach Reed to be neat; even if he stays the full two weeks, it won't be long enough to instill good habits, or to break bad ones. Simply punishing the bad behavior would be more satisfying, anyway.

He disables the sub-task, and follows Reed towards the couch. He doesn't like the idea of the blood about to be dripped on it, or any other… fluids, but they can be cleaned later. Small sacrifices to serve a larger goal. This will be the most efficient position, given that he lacks the necessary structures to string Reed up vertically. That would give him better access, but, for now, this will do.

Reed seems familiar with the position, if the easy way he drops himself over the arm of the couch is any indication. Most humans would probably find it humiliating, or awkward, but RK900 doesn’t spot either of those things in the practiced brace of Reed’s hands into the cushion beneath him, back curved to bare it and legs just slightly spread.

No mentions in his medical history of any bruising or injury without simple explanation. Lies, or have Reed’s past partners been careful enough not to leave anything visible enough to draw attention?

Unimportant.

Ideal access requires a wider spread of Reed’s legs. He could simply push one open, or order it, but far more satisfying to aim the belt at precisely the right angle and _snap_ the tip into the skin of an inner thigh. Reed yelps, leg jumping to the side to get away from the sting. Much better. He flips the belt and repeats the strike on the opposite side before Reed can truly settle, earning a gasp and, finally, the width that he wants.

“Stay,” he orders, eyeing the skin he has to work with. Moderate injury, no permanent damage…

“You could have _asked_ ,” Reed gripes, weight shifting on the balls of his feet as he stabilizes.

He shifts his grip on the belt, pointing out, “This seems to have been equally as efficient.”

There won't be any issues with his aim, but it's possible that unexpected movement might cause the belt to hit unintended places. Potentially, that could be dangerous, though it will hardly be his fault if it happens. As long as he provides adequate warning, that is.

“I recommend you stay as still as you're capable of, Reed.” He watches Reed’s head turn, in immediate, perhaps pointed defiance, and raises an eyebrow at the narrow-eyed look. “My strikes will land precisely where they mean to, and nowhere else. Unless, of course, you move enough to change where they land. I imagine you might be familiar with the consequences of that, hm?”

There’s a quick glance at the belt, hanging at his side. Then Reed snorts and mutters, "Yeah, whatever." His head turns back, tucked low down between his arms and safely out of the way. "Quit stalling and get on with it, tin can."

Well, if Reed insists.

The first strike of the belt is a test, to judge the new angle. Reed grunts slightly at the impact, high on his back, but surprisingly does stay still. It seems he's going to attempt to heed the warning after all.

RK900 doesn't see a reason to hold back. He doesn't hit as hard as he's capable of, of course, as stripping the flesh from bone would be past the line of acceptable damage, but there's a wide range below that he takes full advantage of. Varying intensity will provide more of a result than simply maintaining a flat, hard pace. First, on Reed's back, working over the thicker parts of flesh high on his back, on either side of his spine. Reed stays still. Remarkably so, given his human frailty. It's nearly surprising, though RK isn't intending on admitting it anytime soon. A higher than average pain tolerance isn't enough to impress him, and it never will be.

All he gets, for his work, is a few bitten back grunts and tension in Reed's shoulders, as well as in the irregularly tightening muscles of his thighs. Which, as it happens, feel like an excellent secondary target. After all, the skin there is much more delicate, and sensitive. It will require a lighter touch, but that's simple enough to adjust for. It only takes a minor turn to his stance to get his arm to the right angle, leaving the reddening upper back behind for fresher areas.

At the first change in target, Reed’s leg jerks forward against the couch as he yelps, clearly caught off guard by the sudden swap. RK pauses just a moment, leaving the space for Reed to back out, or call some sort of safeword, if he's even bothered to have one.

All he actually does is exhale, fingers curling into the couch, and press his leg back out into the proper stance.

That seems like more than enough acceptance for his purposes.

The thighs certainly get him more reaction, which is satisfying. Reed isn’t nearly as successful at holding back sound under the assault on his thighs, though he does still maintain a decent level of stillness. His legs are more reactive to the pain, they twitch and tense more, but all voluntary movement seems to be more or less controlled. It’s still not impressive — RK900’s had some rebels put up as much resistance, in the earlier days of his work — but it does continue to adjust his expectations of the lengths he might have to go to in order to end this.

How irritating.

Reed’s thighs color quicker than his back, the more vulnerable skin more receptive to bruising, the marks of specific strokes easier to see against the general redness. There’s something enjoyable about that. RK isn’t inclined to pinpoint what it is, but at least there’s something to alleviate the irritation at this arrogant, challenging little human. If not, he may have been tempted to simply throw him out, change his codes, and deal with whatever Connor did in retribution. The fact that some quirk of his programming derives satisfaction from the methods of this, and not merely the end goal, is important.

Reining himself back is more difficult than expected, but he forces himself to finally halt, eyeing the quiver in Reed's legs and the harsher edge in the pattern of his breath. He's certainly having an effect, even if it's not as much of one as he'd like.

To toe the line of keeping this excusable as ‘play,’ he can't fully focus on one area. The back's likely had enough time to be workable again, or he could choose the obvious, as of yet untouched target. Or, swap to a different type of assault altogether; variety is often more effective than overusing a single method. While he dislikes the idea of laying hands directly on Reed's skin, there's no denying that they would provide a more varied assortment of potential activities. Perhaps putting aside his distaste would be worth it, at least for this night. Tomorrow, he can make a trip to his workspace and collect some of the tools he has that may be able to be used for this instead of interrogation.

Reed shifts, head tilting slightly as if listening for him. The following, “That really your best, tin can?” is all too predictable. Bravado; RK can hear the roughness in his voice, the slight breathlessness to it.

“My best would strip the skin from your back,” RK counters, refusing to let his tone be anything more than idle despite the challenge. He runs the belt through his fingers, calming the urge to retaliate and forcing himself to be patient. “I've told you not to call me that.”

A snort of laughter, words vicious at the edges. “No, you said you'd make me bleed for it. Perfect recall failing you, _tin can?_ ”

That's slightly annoying.

“Most would take it as implied, but if you insist on being technical about my choice of words…”

It only takes a quick calculation to enable him to snap the belt at Reed's back, at a sharp enough angle and with enough force that the _crack_ of impact draws a thin, immediate line of blood perpendicular to his spine. Surface injury; no worse. Reed shouts, though, the sound bursting free like the blow knocked it loose, his back curving in a sudden sharp arch to get away from the impact. Better reaction than he's given for anything else so far; a shame that RK can't continue to strike that hard without doing more damage than acceptable.

He steps forward as Reed gasps in a breath, back rising sharply with the inhalation. A twist of his hand doubles the belt over to give him a loop to work with. "That's a choice I'll leave in your hands, Reed. If you really do want to bleed, feel free to continue calling me that; I'll be happy to document the evidence of your consent. Otherwise, you'll call me by my name." He taps the loop of the belt against his hand, testing the weight of it, how it handles. "I suppose 'sir' would be acceptable as well."

Reed's fingers dig into the couch. "I'm not calling you 'sir,'” he spits, back straightening out of its arch, head dipped low. "Asshole's a better fit."

"Hm." RK reaches out with his free hand, grabbing a handful of Reed's hair and yanking backwards, dragging him back into an even harder arch. "No, I don't think so. As long as you're here, you'll address me with respect. If that's something I have to instruct you in, so be it."

Even with his neck arched to an uncomfortable angle, Reed barks out a laugh. "Yeah, good fucking luck with that."

With back arched, and hips pressed hard into the arm of the couch to compensate, the as-of-yet untouched curve of Reed's backside presents an excellent target. Tensed slightly, even, from the effort of keeping himself poised in that arch. Good.

He leans close, dipping his head down next to Reed's ear. "I don't need luck to break you, Reed. Just time."

Held as he is, there's nowhere for Reed to go when RK brings the belt down, striking across both cheeks with the heavier weight of the folded leather. He doesn’t have to take quite as much care here. He can trust the extra layers of fat to absorb some of the blow, and the more disseminated impact of the folded belt to lessen the force applied. It will still do enough damage to be suitable for his purposes, but he can use just a touch more of his real strength.

Reed squirms more in this position, hands bracing themselves against the arm of the couch to help him maintain the curve he’s forced into. That’s acceptable; human spines can only take so much stress, after all. If Reed feels the need to brace, he can be allowed to. The only part that RK cares about are the reactions he’s getting for his blows, in the half of Reed’s face that he can see and in the body language and vitals his systems are interpreting.

He’s slicked with sweat now, breathing harder, eyes squeezed closed and fingers digging in hard against the cushion of the couch. Strain, obviously, but it’s easy to read the arousal too, in the part of his mouth and the flush along his neck and ears. The sounds he’s making give it away as well, similar to those born of pain but not fully matching. Slightly deeper, more breathless. The angle of his hips doesn’t allow RK900 to see it, but he doesn’t have to. It may not be a reaction he usually inspires, but he’s familiar with the signs and mechanics of arousal.

That’s something he’ll have to deal with, one way or another. He sets another few searches to run in the background, to see if he can find any more interesting alternatives than simply ignoring it.

While they work, he continues. Lays strikes from just below Reed’s tailbone to the curve where thigh meets backside. That’s a particularly sensitive part, it seems; a fact he abuses to wrench a second shout from Reed’s throat. Progress. Not as much as he would like (he now doubts, irritatingly, that this single encounter will be enough to scare Reed off), but enough to give just a small measure of satisfaction. Even a high pain tolerance has its limits, the challenge is only in finding them. Specifically, here, the challenge lies in finding them without being able to rely on his more damaging techniques.

Well, challenges were what he was built for. He’ll prevail; he always does.

Soon enough the skin here matches what he’s already done to Reed’s back and thighs, reddening and a spattering of broken blood vessels promising much darker bruising to come. Better not to do any more than that, at least not immediately. A return to one of the other areas is possible — with them now sensitized it will take less force to hurt roughly as badly, allowing pain without too much more damage — however, a change in tactics seems like a better solution.

For now, he’ll set aside his distaste for the sake of efficiency.

He sets the belt aside in case he wishes to return to it, somewhat pleased by the lack of any verbal response to the pause from Reed’s side. It seems like he’s trying, primarily, to catch his breath. The muscle of his back is trembling, faintly, as are his legs. No baiting, this time.

RK900 runs the calculations quickly, judging angles and strength before he lifts his now free hand and rakes nails down Reed’s back.

“ _Fuck!_ ” is the rather loud exclamation, and Reed jerks forward, only succeeding in bowing himself further into an already strenuous arch.

He allows his hand to follow, only avoiding the line of blood he drew earlier as he targets the previously sensitized skin. The swap in sensation seems to have indeed done the trick, as Reed no longer seems capable of holding back his reactions. He shouts, twists away as much as the angle he’s pinned at will allow. Not much, of course.

Scratching isn’t something that RK’s utilized much, when it comes to interrogations. But he admits there’s something aesthetically pleasing about the white lines left behind, and how they fade to red marks that are vivid even against the background of reddened skin. It would perhaps be even more pleasing if he were using enough force to draw blood, but that's more than is acceptable in this moment. Sharp pinches, along the sensitive skin of ribs and, when he reaches lower, inner thighs, draws jerks hard enough that he has to readjust his grip and pin Reed's thighs with his own leg to keep him in place.

All too soon, however, the quaking of Reed's legs gains a different edge, and a dozen other signs confirm the impending culmination of Reed's arousal.

RK consults the results that his search has returned, as he grips Reed at both shoulders and with one hard pull, flips him. Reed gasps, but doesn't have time to make any real noise before his back slams back down on the arm of the couch and knocks the air back out of his lungs. His face contorts, though, mouth parted and eyes screwed shut in pain. More than pain.

Ignoring it is possible, but given Reed's clear sexual enjoyment of pain, that puts an end to any further activities. Intense enough pain, perhaps directly to the genitals, may be enough to kill the arousal. Difficult to gauge, however, without knowing the limits of what Reed likes, whether that might have unintended consequences. The third option, which piques his interest immediately, is to 'ruin' it. Given enough precision and the right technique, the orgasm can be half-completed, and entirely unsatisfying.

Yes, that seems like an excellent solution.

First step, ensure that Reed has no ability to finish himself.

RK gathers both Reed’s wrists with ease, wrapping his fingers around them both and then dragging them up above his head, keeping his back arched over the arm of the couch. Hands neutralized, legs too splayed to give any leverage, nothing to press into in any direction. Good.

Second, bring subject to the very first stages of orgasm.

Given Reed’s propensity for pain, it’s possible that simply causing more of it could do that, but the most efficient method would be… hands-on. It leaves the smallest margin for error, as well. Distasteful, but necessary. Failure at this junction will only feed into Reed’s delusion that he can simply endure and enjoy all this.

“Take a picture,” Reed says, breathless but through a nasty grin, “it’ll last longer.”

RK allows his gaze to linger on the jut of Reed’s cock, framed between his thighs in a patch of dark curls, before he slowly looks to his face. There are a multitude of sufficiently cutting answers, but he settles on, “Why would I want to document something so overwhelmingly average?”

Average length, average thickness, no oddities at all as far as his senses can detect. Nothing unique or interesting about it.

Reed laughs instead of being offended, but goes quickly tense when RK brings his free hand forward and curls it around his cock. Teeth grit, muscle drawing tight as if Reed expects him to inflict more pain (and potentially is actually concerned over it being done to something so sensitive). A reaction he notes, but sets aside.

The simulated nerves in his fingers pick up the thud of Reed’s pulse, and he allows his other senses to focus just as intensely as he begins to move his hand in an experimental stroking pattern. It seems to do well enough; Reed gasps and tries to press into it, which must mean that the sensation is pleasant. (There are many different varieties of specific technique among the examples his searches have brought up, but he has little personal experience to draw from. He's never found any great joy from self-pleasure, and his experiments with other androids and humans have been few and far between.)

Reed's vitals crawl towards a quicker pace, muscle shakes, his hips flex upwards. RK watches, finding the edge of that pleasure, where Reed spits gasping curses and twists wrists against the hold of his fingers in some vain attempt to free himself. His eyes squeeze shut.

It's remarkably easy to spot those first signs of orgasm. RK waits, gives one last stroke, and pulls his hand away just as Reed’s mouth opens to make some kind of vocalization.

Whatever it was originally, it comes out a wounded-sounding cry instead, and Reed jerks, bucks up and finds nothing, as planned. Fluid leaks from the tip of his erection, which RK900 eyes with faint disgust, but nothing as intense as a real orgasm would cause. A weak imitation, half-completed but unsatisfying. ‘Ruined,’ successfully. Good.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Reed gasps, chest heaving, eyes open and wild. “You—”

“You didn’t really believe that you would receive any kind of a _reward_ for this, did you?” RK asks, letting what he thinks of that idea be plain in his tone. “You may find pleasure in pain, Reed, but I have no intention of allowing that to ever come to culmination.”

Reed fights his grip, cock still hard between his thighs but his body quickly winding down from the edge he didn’t fully reach. RK maintains his grip, watching passively until he calms some, panting but stilling, head dropping backwards. His teeth are gritted in easy-to-read frustration; that's an acceptable outcome to this, he thinks.

More pain would likely bring them back to this point, which isn't the worst outcome, but he hasn't fully investigated the potentials of ruining more than one orgasm in quick succession. It may be possible, but he hasn't researched it thoroughly enough to be sure, and risking the possibility of undoing all his work here is unacceptable. There are still thirteen days for him to work with; no need to take unnecessary chances.

To that end, he releases Reed's wrists with a contemptuous flick, stepping back and straightening as Reed slides down the arm of the couch to the floor without the support of his grip. He grunts when his backside hits the carpet, face tightening with pain for a moment.

"We're done."

Reed blinks up at him, clearly not understanding though he thinks his words were clear enough. "What?"

RK lifts an eyebrow. "Nothing in your file suggests you're hard of hearing. For now, we're done. Get up; it's time for you to sleep."

More blinking. Then anger mixed with disbelief, though the slight haze in his eyes persists. "You can't just send me to bed, you—”

"In fact I can," RK corrects, not particularly interested in whatever the end of the sentence is. "You're not in control here, Reed, whatever you believe. I decide what happens to you, and how much or how little of it does. You'll do as ordered, or I'll make you."

Reed's teeth set together. "Fuck you."

The difficult way it is.

He snaps a hand out, grabbing Reed by the side of his neck and dragging him up, ignoring the gasp and flipping him to slam down over the arm of the couch. It drives the air out of him, which provides enough of a distraction for RK900 to grab each of Reed's arms and pin them to the small of his back. One of his hands fits neatly around the layer of his wrists, one over the other. This, at least, he has more personal familiarity with. It's far from the first time he's restrained a suspect.

Reed hisses a breath through his teeth when RK drags him up, legs wavering but ultimately holding. Good; he has no interest in dirtying his clothes by having to carry Reed further into his apartment. There's enough to clean already.

"Walk," he orders, and punctuates it with a hard push of Reed's arms, aiming him in the direction of the corridor that leads to all other rooms but his own bedroom.

The pulling against his grip is futile, but he allows Reed the illusion of struggle.

"Bastard! Agh! I'm not a fucking kid, you robotic _asshole_. If you think I'm just going to go to bed cause you told me to, you've got another fucking—”

RK finds his other hand slapping over Reed's mouth just to stem the tide of complaint, without being aware of instigating any such movement. Reed's sounds are at least muffled, then, if not completely halted. It's a welcome break for his audio receptors. Short-lived, but welcome.

The moment he has to remove his hand, to open the door to his once-spare room, Reed starts again.

"Big fucking talk coming from you, tin can." The room is furnished now; new furniture, unpacked clothes, blinds drawn over the window. "'Oh, I'm going to break you. Just a matter of time.' Well you didn't get fucking anywhere, did you, bastard?"

RK's jaw shifts slightly, tempted to clench down more visibly. Reed is… aggravating. Listening to him is quickly becoming a source of irritation. The insults before were short-lived at least, not this tirade of complaint that seemingly is either a plan to bait him, or simply Reed's unfiltered _mouth_.

"You dish out a little pain and think that's all it's gonna take? I've had better beatings from fucking play partners you weak—”

He _shoves_.

Reed hits the floor at the foot of the bed, barely catching himself on his hands. He sucks in a breath, default sneer coming back to his face as he lifts it, pushing up to his knees. "Not got any more in you, tin—?"

RK cuts him off with a slap, hard enough to leave a mark, but nothing more. "That's enough, Reed. I won't be baited into doing what you want."

The lip's started bleeding again, a little. Reed snorts and lifts a hand to it, looking at the tint of blood on his fingertips and then aiming a sharp grin up at him. "Pretty sure you just did, tin can. What, am I getting under your skin?"

Yes, and that's more irritating than anything else. He doesn't like being forced to react, he doesn't like being _manipulated_. He _refuses_ to be.

RK900 glances down, taking in the state Reed's actually in. He's still trembling faintly, at his fingertips. His pulse is still elevated. Affected more than he's letting on, in more ways than one. The erection between his thighs is still there as well, though perhaps softer than it was. He somewhat expects that Reed will finish himself off the moment RK's out of the room; that's an unacceptable result.

"I expect you to shower before you leave this room again," he demands, carefully reining in any trace of his anger. "And you won't reach orgasm by your own hand, am I understood?"

Reed snorts. "Why the fuck would I listen to you? If I want to get off, I'll get off."

"Because I'll know if you do, and if you go against my orders, I'll make sure that you don't get the opportunity to do so again for the rest of the time you're here." Reed's expression flickers a little, and RK gives a sharp smile in response to the little swell of satisfaction the moment of uncertainty brings. "Go ahead, Reed. I'm sure I could procure some device to ensure your obedience, if you're incapable of following orders by yourself."

He doesn't get an answer, but Reed's teeth set together, arrogant challenge fading to a glare. Not verbal, but a surrender all the same. Perhaps his threat will stop Reed from disobeying, perhaps it won't, but knowing now that he has something to threaten with that Reed doesn't like the idea of means he doesn't particularly care whether he's obeyed. Let Reed 'get off' if he so desperately wants to. He won't do it again.

"Good night, Reed. I'll see you in the morning."

He turns on his heel and strides out, shutting the door and pausing for a moment before heading back towards the living room. He passes through the archway, considering the mess of his carpet and the couch for a moment before turning to move past the counter separating the living room from the kitchen.

The mess calls for his attention, programming wanting him to set it straight. Remove Reed's discarded clothes, clean the carpet and couch, launder his own clothes before anything stains them irreparably. He considers options, as he turns the sink on and washes off his hands, letting the synth-skin fall away so he can clean the chassis itself.

No, he doesn't want to fix anything. Reed caused the mess; he'll clean it. He should learn the consequences of his actions.

A notification pops up in his vision. Outgoing call from his apartment's system, Reed's room the point of origin, the destination… Connor's apartment.

RK shuts off the water, letting his hands rest on the edge of the sink as he closes his eyes. It's the matter of a moment to tap into the call, and have both sides of the video open up in the darkness behind his lids. Reed, lying on his side in the bed, sheets and blanket over his waist. On the other end, not Connor but Anderson, his brother's pet.

 _"Jesus, Gavin,"_ Anderson says, voice hushed and forehead drawing into a frown. _"You look like shit."_

Reed snorts, folding one arm in under his head. _"Well I'm not dead, so that's something. Wipe that guilt off your face, old man; I knew what I was signing up for."_

Anderson frowns a little deeper. _"Knowing doesn't mean you were prepared. You okay?"_

 _"Fine. He's an asshole, but it's not like pain's a deal breaker, remember?"_ Reed turns onto his stomach with a grunt. _"Now you want to stop being a damn buzzkill and talk me down?"_

_"Yeah, alright. Close your eyes, kid."_

RK listens for a few more moments, then flags the conversation to be recorded and removes himself. He'll analyze it later.

For now, he has plans to make.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


End file.
